Bleeding Love (In Depth)

"Why? Why me? How could you do this to me?" Rain is tacky against his skin, blurring his vision and pooling like ice in his lungs. Two desperate hands cling to the front of his shirt, fingers fisting into the soaked material.

This isn't how it happened.

He wasn't even there.

The grinding, piercing sounds of slashing blades fill the air around them. He knows exactly what is going on even though his eyes are trained on her. Kira is being backed into a corner, her sword bent and cracking, one arm limp and useless at her side.

This isn't how it happened.

Isaac is on the floor, his eyes wide open, unmoving.

This is not how it happened.

"It hurts." Her face twisted up in absolute agony, her fair skin translucent against the light of the moon, that or it's all of the blood leaving your body, spurting out around the blade plunged through her stomach. The tip of it is dripping behind her back, rain and blood falling to the cement in violent crashes. He can see himself in her eyes, the smirk on his face decorated with blood, sharp teeth pressed into his own lip, drawing more blood into the collective.

"I'm sorry!" He's screaming the words but his smirking mouth isn't moving. He leans into her, licking the blood that is spewing from her mouth, drinks it down with a sick glint in his eyes. Her body is dead weight on the sword, her skin ripping, he can't even see his hands against the downpour of rain and blood.

"I'm sorry!" A violent crash forced Stiles' spine to straighten. His arms flail in all directions, trying to familiarize himself with the physical elements of his surroundings as his eyes struggle to adjust. His chest is heaving too much, there's so much air being pulled into and out of his lungs that it's making him lightheaded. His hands are still searching the bedsheets for nothing, but his skin is on fire and every pass of his palms against the material makes his flesh burn. His face is filled to the brim with heat, vision blurred from it.

Find me.

The words reverberate in his brain as if someone were actually saying them aloud. He can almost hear the voice, raspy and deep with sleep, lulling him out of his panic.

Find me. Find my voice, my face, my touch.

He tries desperately to do that. To remember the sweet rasp of that voice when he just wakes up. To remember the way his face twisted up every time he kissed his nose. To remember the way his hands felt so rough yet so soft rubbing up and down his back.

The time ticks by on the clock sitting on the bedside table, the red numbers morphing up and up and up as Stiles sits there, feeling too much all at once. When his breathing slows, his sunken chest leveled with a natural ratio of inhales to exhales, he still doesn't move. He stared at that clock, his hands limp in his lap, wondering how long it would take for him to gather the strength to twitch. How much longer after that before he moved a limb. The red numbers keep ticking, shifting audibly number to number.

The alarm blares thirty-five minutes later, shocking his nervous system into movement. He raises his arm before he can think about it, pressing harshly against the snooze button. Stiles swings his legs over the edge of the bed, heart still pounding in his chest as he shuffles heavily into the bathroom. Meeting his own gaze in the mirror, he stops and stares for a minute or so before looking away. He brushes his teeth and splashes a bit of cold water over his face before retreating back into his bedroom. He finds a pair of jeans in his dresser and a decently clean shirt from his hamper, throwing a gray hoodie over it. He stuffs his feet into his shoes then sags on his bed. The clock reminds him of how early it is and he sighs.